“Oh, so you write?”
They reply with eyes either big enough to devour me whole,
Or they squint, small enough to avoid me, maybe-
They try to measure my worth;
Worth in words. Letters. Alphabets.
“Yes, I try.”
I revert back, half-heartedly.
The silence grows, drawing to an eternity till the next question pops up-
“So are you into poems or stories?”
Let me think,
Do I prefer the inadequate brevity of poetry or the impeccable climax of a story?
“I write a bit of both”
In my mind the debate continues…
Sometimes I feel like shouting my lungs out-
In reality and the social media alike, “Read my work, please”
But wouldn’t that be akin to begging?
When you write, you melt yourself in the process,
And you submerge in your molten form, till you can breathe no longer;
Holding onto nothing but a strand of creativity.
“I’ll read them for sure!”
A faint promise, strung up with a few broken words-
“Even my aunt’s cousin writes, she got featured in some newspaper too!”
“But I’ve melted myself in the process, drowned in my own molten form;
“I’ve tried to get over procrastination, like a subservient slave,
Suddenly revolting against oppression…”
“It doesn’t matter, the others are doing it too!” a shard of conscience shoots back.
Almost too confidently.
Art- Satyaki’s Art Stuff